A Thousand Years of Stories
by Redrangerpower
Summary: A book of various short stories and drabbles dedicated to Lost Odyssey. Mostly humor but has bits from all genres.
1. By the Fire Side

**A Thousand Years of Stories**

Disclaimer: I don't own Lost Odyssey. I'm not doing this for any monetary gain or personal advance beyond the improvement of my personal writing abilities.

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By the Fire Side

_**Snow Covered Trail **_

_**Magic Industry City of Gohtza**_

He'd ordered them behind him from the second they were reunited. Jansen had taken the lead against rushing snow, freezing air and whatever angry beasts had happened upon them so that the children had that almost insignificant speck of additional protection. He was a mage after all, if anything really wanted to go through him and was quick enough, well, it wouldn't exactly be pretty. But he was adamant. Or at least, the part of him that wasn't screaming at him was.

_They're in the same group as you genius!_ That part of him shouted in his mind._ Come on, at least have the freakin' queen next to you! A few oversized termites and monkeys aren't going to hurt them after all the crap they've been through! _

But something compelled him. Something other than the memories of how vicious Kaim could be in combat, though that probably helped. Sure, they may have been magic wielders. Sure, one of them might be able to call up freakin' thunder storms just by crying, but goddamn it they were still _kids_! There are certain situations you just don't put kids into, and if they're already there, you have to do your best to keep them as safe as possible. It was a man card requirement.

So the Uhran mage, who'd started off his part in the adventure utterly doused in alcohol and complaining all the way, lead the way down the frozen train tracks, using one arm to shield his face, his staff to create a small warming light with which to see, and his body to shield the two children and an immortal queen behind him.

_What a weird freaking day. Hell, what a weird freaking few months. _

When they'd found a small breach in a stone wall that was partly shielded from the blizzard, he could have cried for joy. He may have actually done it too, but he was really too tired to care.

As soon as some torn up wooden debris were gathered he cast a flare spell and the little pile suddenly burst into flames. It wasn't a roaring fire, and there wasn't anything else to warm them, but it was something. A scatterbrained part of him briefly reexamined the absolutely crazy idea that any grandfather could let their granddaughter walk around dressed like Cooke was, but, hey, they were Numarans. Their queen wasn't exactly overly clothed either. Besides, who would have expected a giant ice ball to fall on Ghotza?

They sat in exhausted silence for a moment, trying to warm themselves off of the minuscule fire.

"Thanks Jansen," Mack finally said in a quite voice.

The mage's head almost snapped around and he stared at the boy like he'd grown a second head.

"Huh?" He asked, ever articulate.

"For trying to protect us from the snow, for the fire," Mack explained. "Thanks."

Thanks…Jansen? Wow, now there were some words that he hadn't been used in the same sentence in a while; years maybe. At least not actually directed at him.

There was a pause where only the fire crackled.

Then Jansen put a warm hand on Mack's head and gave it a fond rub.

"Hey, no problem kiddo," He said, a weird sort of fuzzy feeling welling up in his chest that had all together nothing to do with booze or female company. "I mean, what kind of a mage would I be if I couldn't light a little fire?"

"A pretty crummy one," Cooke supplied helpfully.

The fuzzy feeling was sucked out of Jansen so fast that it could have not been there in the first place. The Uhran mage gritted his teeth into something gruesome that vaguely resembled a smile.

"I just _love_ kids."

**End**


	2. Royal Wear

**A Thousand Years of Stories**

Disclaimer: I don't own Lost Odyssey. I'm not doing this for any monetary gain or personal advance beyond the improvement of my personal writing abilities.

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Royal Wear

_**Numara Palace**_

_**The Free Oceanic State of Numara**_

The soon-to-be king of Numara stared at the pile of clothing he'd been given, trying very, _very_ hard not to scream himself horse in protest of it. He gingerly picked up one part of the ensemble, and unfolded it: a navy blue v-shaped piece of cloth that left nothing at all to anybody's imagination and shuddered.

No.

No, no, no, _no_!

He wasn't wearing this. Any of it.

Absolutely not.

_Never_.

It was sick. And wrong. And no!

He'd rather have had general sourpuss's old outfit to wear. Even if Kakanas' pants had been blindingly white and looked like they had been painted on, then somehow made to fit _more_ snuggly. It was still infinitely better than _this_.

He wouldn't do it. Nobody could make him.

"Jansen, are you alright?" A voice that he absolutely adored asked him from just outside the room.

Except, maybe, just maybe, that woman.

_Stupid love! Stupid clothing! I'd never have to wear this kind of stuff back in Uhra with those girls! _A part of him half-snarled, half-whimpered.

"Ming," He said instead, quietly but dubiously, "are you _sure_ this is what I have to wear?"

"Is something the matter with it?" She returned, apparently genuinely curious.

"Well, it's a speedo, a half skirt, a vest and a cape."

There was a heavy pause.

"This isn't some kind of weird joke tradition is it?" Jansen asked, just to be sure.

"Certainly not," Ming replied.

There was another pause.

"Though, I don't recall having those sent to you," the immortal queen of Numara said at last.

Jansen stared at pile of clothing again, and felt a very nasty feeling stir inside his chest.

"Ming," He started, sounding quite calm he thought, "how many secret murders do Numaran royalty get?"

**End**


	3. Masks

**A Thousand Years of Stories**

Disclaimer: I don't own Lost Odyssey. I'm not doing this for any monetary gain or personal advance beyond the improvement of my personal writing abilities.

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Masks

_**Area between Uhran and Khentese lines**_

_**Highlands of Whol**_

Kaim Argonar spent most of his waking moments wearing a mask. Not a physical one per say, not one that actually covered the face, but a mask in the sense of a facial expression. A grim line of a mouth, a stern stare, and little else was the mask the immortal warrior donned every morning. It kept people out, allowed him to face his own demons on his own terms, safe from the prying of others.

It was this sort of mask that he wore now, as he grasped his longsword.

The mountainous Highlands of Whol were embroiled in bloody chaos as the Khentese and Uhran armies smashed into one another with all the finesse of two bull elephants. The Khentese were better armed and armored, so the Uhrans had inevitably fallen back on the strategy of overcoming a foe by sheer bull headed stubbornness reinforced by a numerical advantage.

It was an infuriatingly lazy and moronic choice. One that led to an abhorrent waste of human life.

The broken bodies of the dead and dying were spread about Kaim as if they were shoots of wheat in a particularly macabre farm. Crimson life blood mixed with the mud and gravel underfoot, turning into a hellish rocky slush.

Kaim's expression did not change.

He'd seen this sort of thing before. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of times in his unnaturally long life. At best, he could dredge up the feeling of regret at the monumental scenes of death about him, when a part of him desperately wanted to break down and weep at the sight. Such a feeling was not forthcoming.

Instead, Kaim did what he had been hired to do. What he had done for centuries: he fought and ended lives. He had been a mercenary, a warrior who killed for coin, not politics or ideals for a very long time. Even if he was a proper soldier of Uhra now, the mercenary side of him prevailed in combat and it served him well. A mercenary held true to their appointed missions, so long as payment had been given. Kaim had already been paid.

And right now, he wasn't doing his job.

Despite whatever feelings which lingered in the back of his mind, that wouldn't do.

Kaim freshened the grip on his blade and charged into the looming, armored shadows that made up a line of Khentese soldiers. Thin, glaring red eyes peeked from the top of each of their tall helmets, and they raised their large swords and shields.

They were prepared to meet him as a threat, and the part of him that wanted to weep at the battle was suddenly disappointed.

He tried putting on another mask, the fiercest expression he could manage, with narrowed eyes and teeth bared. The Khentese did not falter, did not recoil at this charge from what they must have thought to be an absolute madman. The first came as him, blade raised overhand, and Kaim dispatched him with a single swing to the waist. The blade went right in between the warrior's armored chest and groin coverings, one of the few places nobody could be properly armored without a great sacrifice in movement ability. The Khent fell with an agonized howl.

Killing the soldier hadn't made Kaim loose a single step, only a fraction of his forward momentum. Still, the Khentese raised swords and met his charge with one of their own. They were unafraid of this one man, however skilled he might be, and would do their duty.

Disappointment sparked to life in Kaim once again, alongside a sad sort of respect.

He'd put on this newest mask in the hopes that they might be given pause. An optimistic part of the immortal even hoped that they would flee, or even surrender. That they would do something to spare their lives and spare Kaim himself from ending more lives unnecessarily.

But they were committed to their country and people. They would not sully their honor by doing anything less than using their weapons as they were taught to, and dying if necessary.

Kaim could respect that conviction. But it also made the outcome of this fight clear.

First Lieutenant Kaim Argonar of Uhra would kill these soldiers. He too might die, but it would not be permanent. He would rise again, like some undead abomination, and enter this fight anew.

He considered it a sad fate, not being able to die, and knowing that he would be used to kill those who could.

But truly, what else was there?

**End**


End file.
